


Astraphobia

by Hiver_Noir



Category: The Hitcher (1986)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 11:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21135758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiver_Noir/pseuds/Hiver_Noir
Summary: Jim is afraid of thunderstorms. Ryder notices.





	Astraphobia

**Author's Note:**

> UNBETAED. Read at your own risk.

Lay my hands on heaven and the sun and the moon and the stars  
While the devil wants to fuck me in the back of his car.

  
  
It is past nine when the storm that has been slowly brewing within the tarnished sky all the day long, finally breaks loose. Jim knows, because he’s looking at his watch nervously as it happens, hoping he’d get them to some place – a diner, a hotel, an abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere – he doesn’t really care, as long as they are able to reach it before the first roar of thunder would shatter in his ears, leaving him trembling with its deafening rumble. And when it finally does, he flinches, almost jumping in his seat just to shrink back immediately, slouching in a way that betrays his misery more than any words could. His fingers on the wheel waver and he clutches it more tightly; it’s nothing, just a slight shiver, but not for him, anyway.  
  
This thought immediately brings unease gathering in his bowels. Not only does the thick wall of rain block his view, making the wheels slide down the track, he also feels the questioning glance from the man sitting next to him. Jim opens his dried up mouth and speaks up, not wanting his passenger to misunderstand him or mistake his fright for an act of defiance.  
  
\- I don’t like thunderstorms.  
  
Ryder raises an eyebrow. A faint smile nestles in the corners of his mouth.  
  
Jim bites his tongue and looks up, trying to discern the road in front of him, darkened and blurred by the savage flood of Old Testament proportions.  
  
A truck runs past them, cutting through the space like a huge boulder snapped off a high mountain. It does not pose a threat to them, but still appears to be closer than Jim is comfortable with, and his hands twitch, turning the wheel sharply and compelling the car to slide dangerously aside. Jim attempts to handle the vehicle; a slight blow of panic at the back of his head makes all of his hair stand up when Ryder’s palm suddenly falls on the wheel, leading the car back on the track.  
  
Jim’s back is painfully straight as if he had swallowed a pole. He’s screwed up again - every mistake he makes boosts the scale of his nervousness further, leading to more mishaps. This vicious circle pulls him deeper and deeper, and the more effort he spends on trying to get a hold on himself, the less strength he has left to fight.  
  
\- Stop the car,- Ryder raises a hand to fix the rear-view mirror. He peers inside the darkness collected under the glass as if he could really see something behind the dense veil of pouring water pierced by pale flickers of electricity, and Jim gets a strong suspicion that this might be the case, - we’ll have to look for a new ride if you crash this one.  
  
Jim chews on his lip and turns to the side of the road, knowing the true meaning behind these words. He jams the engine; his hands are still gripping the wheel, motionless as he stares at his reflection in the windshield — pale as a ghost with two bullet holes for the eyes. Jim has told the truth - thunderstorms were never easy for him, but right now his instincts suggest his causes of concern may not be limited to thunder and lightning only. Trying to predict Ryder’s course of action is a futile endeavor, but Jim clearly feels he has aroused his interest this time. It usually doesn’t bode well for anyone’s future.  
  
And indeed, the man leans back into the passenger seat, probing Jim’s tense profile with his stare. Ryder’s fingers move to the dashboard, knocking out some upbeat rhythm that Jim fails to recognize, and this thought doesn’t allow him to concentrate on anything else. All that remains in his head is fear beating against the vault of his skull, a frightened bird in a darkened room.  
  
\- Is this why you picked me up?  
  
\- What?  
  
\- Did you pick me up so you wouldn’t be alone during a thunderstorm?  
  
Ryder barely makes an effort to conceal the ridicule in his words.  
  
\- Ah...yes.  
  
Jim nods a little, and a faint smile descends upon Ryder’s features; it’s sharp as a scythe. For once, Jim may agree with him. Truly, the sheer irony of his situation is quite astonishing - he was afraid of a thunderstorm and let a serial killer into his car.  
  
Ryder’s voice is measured when it fills the silence, a sedative tone that only serves to emphasize Jim’s panic.  
  
\- Why are you afraid of thunderstorms?  
  
He gets an awkward shrug instead of an answer. Jim still can’t bear to look him in the face, but he knows Ryder is watching him closely, keen on not missing a single detail.  
  
\- I’m just afraid, that’s all.  
  
\- There must be a reason, - Ryder insists. The fingers on the dashboard go still, and Jim vaguely wonders if this could be a good sign or not - What happened to you during one of these thunderstorms? Did your parents lock you in a closet? Or maybe your cousin Frank came into your room and touched you, - His hand falls on Jim’s thigh in dangerous proximity to his groin and squeezes the muscles found, - where he shouldn’t have?  
  
Jim jolts in his seat. His heart desperately dances within its cage, jumping all the way up and down his throat.  
  
\- Relax, - Ryder says, - I’m not your cousin. I don’t have to wait for a thunderstorm to do whatever I want with you.  
  
He looks at Jim mischievously and winks. The latter curses himself, his childish fear, this thunderstorm and the whole world that allows all of it to happen. If only he had been more reserved, he could have avoided having this conversation; Jim is not too passionate about discussing his childhood trauma with a murderer.  
  
Ryder reaches inside his pocket and Jim’s whole body tightens up as he anticipates the man to take out a knife to confirm his words, but it is just a pack of cigarettes that appears in his fingers. Ryder lights one up and opens the window, allowing the soggy electrified breeze to mix with the smoke. Once every bit of space within this car was soaked in the sweet smell of women’s perfume, sticky as a bloody palm full of sugary powder, and Jim finds it surprising how quickly all of this has eroded. Ryder takes a drag, inhaling deeply, and from the corner of his eye Jim watches his long neck move, his stare following along the elegant nape crowned by a strong jaw. His gaze glides upwards to fall on the sharp outline of his lips locked around the white cigarette filter, when he finally notices Ryder is looking back at him.  
  
He averts his eyes quickly.  
  
\- You didn’t answer my question.  
  
Jim hesitates. His mouth is full of mush and he has to make an effort to force himself to talk.  
  
\- When I was a kid, I often stayed home alone. My brother spent a lot of time in school and my mother was busy working, so I always was on my own during thunderstorms. And when I heard the thunder, it seemed like the roof of our house was starting to fall apart. And no one was there to explain me it wasn’t. That’s all.  
  
Jim’s voice trails off. His head is slightly lowered so he doesn’t have to look at the grin smeared across Riders features. He doesn’t know why he has told this story in such pathetic detail. Was it because Ryder demanded an answer? Or did he only strive to justify himself for his nervous behavior on the road? Perhaps – and what a wild suggestion that is - he hoped to wrench a hint of sympathy out of Ryder’s tar black heart, to make the murderer see him as a human being? Jim could have smiled at the thought, had he the courage - it was such a hopeless idea.  
  
Ryder stays silent for some time, studying the cigarette smoke curling between his fingers in tattered shreds. Maybe he’s still processing what he’s heard, or he’s just astonished by the sheer absurdity of the explanation Jim has offered him - in the end, it doesn’t change anything. Jim stares at the clear streams of water crawling over his windshield which remind him of tiny crystal snakes, and feels very stupid.  
  
Ryder makes another puff and pushes the unfinished cigarette out of the window. Jim could never understand his habit of lighting a new cigarette just to throw it away after taking a drag or two, but that isn’t the strangest thing about this man.  
  
Ryder gently spreads the raincoat over his knees.  
  
\- Well, now you’re not alone. Are you happy about it?  
  
Jim takes the risk to turn his head and throw a side-glance. Ryder is seated halfway his direction and he stares at Jim with the pair of blue lanterns he has instead of eyes. Jim still can’t get used to them - he’s never seen anyone to posses such a strange stare, scanning him through like radiation and just as deadly.  
  
A particularly loud ebb of thunder above their heads interrupts these thoughts, forcing Jim to squirm and tremble uncontrollably. Somewhere within his heart he feels a faint stab of shame for allowing this madman to see his vulnerability so clearly, but at the very same time he knows none of this matters - Ryder is relentless in his attacks on Jim’s sanity, climbing inside his head and fumbling through its contents with slippery bloodstained fingers; sooner or later he would have discovered this little secret as well.  
  
Ryder sets himself in motion, startling him. He changes his position, creeping closer, and the next moment Jim finds the man on his seat, and instinctively recoils. He feels the air itself become heavier and it presses on his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs when Ryder wraps one arm around his his lower back and picks him up under his thighs with the other, pulling Jim to sit on his lap.  
  
\- I think I already told you to relax. - Ryder’s voice is flat and uninterested, but Jim is aware of the dangerous overtones underlying his feigned indifference - Ryder is obviously up to something, utterly determined to enjoy the newly found idea to the fullest, - Was it your cousin that made you so twitchy?  
  
He takes Jim’s by the wrist and throws his arm around his own neck, posing them like a loving couple. However, Jim has long since gone numb to such things, no longer reacting to Ryder’s touch and provocation. And yet, he is haunted by the feeling of being covered with his fingerprints from head to toe, painted with them for all the time they have spent side by side on the road — even Ryder’s scent has permeated into his skin and Jim can smell it on himself as another mark of belonging.  
  
\- What are you doing? - Jim’s voice is barely audible. Ryder’s knees are tough and uncomfortable to sit on, so he moves a little before the man presses a palm against his belly, forcing him to subdue.  
  
\- Curing your fear of thunderstorms.  
  
Ryder tilts his head on the back of the seat, and Jim feels how relaxed his body is. The man reminds him of a machine, designed solely to kill, and he imagines a powerful engine hidden in the streamlined forms of his human flesh. The darkness outside still glowers, strained with lightning, as rain-drenched air trickles through the window, displacing the last threads of cigarette smoke. Jim could have found the continuous chatter of droplets soothing if it hadn’t been for the violent interventions of thunder.  
  
\- Scared, aren’t you? Locked in a car with a murderous psycho in the middle of the desert. - Ryder’s fingers are fixing the collar of Jim’s jacket with mocking care. - And there’s nothing you can do about it.  
  
Even after spending a while in his company, Jim fails to find a coherent explanation behind these persistent repetitive touches - at first he had considered them to be just another method of intimidation, a tactic to knock him out of balance, and he still thinks so, but now it seems to him there’s more to it rather than a single fact that Ryder clearly finds the discomfort brought by his actions amusing. The man leans toward Jim and speaks in his ear as if entrusting his biggest secret to him:  
  
\- Poor kid. No one will look for you.  
  
Jim is silent. His nose is filled with the bitterness of tobacco and instant coffee emanating from Ryder’s clothes; Jim inhales the salty scent of his skin, mixed with metallic tinge, the origin of which he does not want to reflect upon right now.  
  
\- Do you want me to help you forget everything for a while? - Ryder’s hand leaves the collar and makes another rapid descent to the place he’s touched Jim in before, depicting hypothetical cousin Frank the molester. - No pain. I promise.  
  
For the first few seconds, Jim doesn’t understand what it means, but then he flinches a little, abruptly shaking his head. Ryder seems to have achieved the effect he desired as he lets out a slight chuckle over Jim’s temple; he doesn’t remove his hand nonetheless. The interior of the car subsides into silence, interrupted only by the monotonous rattle of rain, the heavy droplets beating out an uneven rhythm to the intermittent cannonade of thunder. Another white lightning sets the sky ablaze and Jim shivers, instinctively pressing himself closer to the other’s body.  
  
\- It’s like the sun’s faded and all the stars are falling down, - Ryder comments. He leans his chin against Jim’s shoulder, his attention focused on the rampant flood outside the window. He seems to have forgotten about the proposition he has voiced a minute ago.  
  
Jim is still silent, belatedly lost in the maze of his thoughts. Ryder is right - Jim’s whole life is entirely in his hands, and he truly can do anything to him. Why would he ask for his cooperation, when he could just take what he wants and be done with that? The promise not to hurt him still lingers in his ears - Ryder has never lied to him before, he could give him credit for that, at least - usually his brutal honesty is more of an overkill.  
  
Ryder’s hand still lies on his thigh, its solid weight reminding Jim of a cat sleeping on his lap, and he is wondering how it would feel on his naked skin. Perhaps this would give him something, maybe this way Jim could better understand what force is driving him to do these things. It’s a naive thought, and Jim suspects he’s just looking for excuses, because all he really wants to do is to forget, to feel something apart from the constant gritting of fear.  
  
\- I agree. - Jim is bewildered at the sound of his own voice. — This thing you said...  
  
He can’t finish the thought for his mind is proven unable to neither digest nor describe what he just agreed to. To be honest, he’s not very clear about how it’s going to be like between two men, especially if one of them is Ryder. On the other hand, he’s learned a lot in the meantime, things like how much blood comes out of a throat after it’s been sliced open, or the dry crack it makes under the heel of a leather boot, so maybe it will be just another lesson on this long hard road, wherever Ryder intends to take him. But for now, there are only two things that matter - Ryder said it wouldn’t hurt and he would help him forget. Something in Jim’s head, probably a remnant of his sanity, the part of his mind that John Ryder hasn’t touched yet, is shouting at him, wondering what he’s doing, if he really wants to get closer to this psychopath when it should be in his best interest to do the contrary, but the words have already been spoken, the lot has been cast.  
  
Jim only hopes he will not sink by attempting to cross this Rubicon.  
  
Ryder keeps quiet for a while, and Jim concludes he’s too immersed in his thoughts, or maybe gives him the time to change his mind, to take his words back - although no other idea could be more ridiculous, for he is aware Ryder would never grant him the privilege to back down. As Jim is pondering on this, another revelation dawns upon him: Ryder will never let him go. It isn’t even about knowing his methods or seeing his face - it is some kind of instinctive, intuitive knowledge, like the inevitability of death, awaiting every living creature at the end of the line. John Ryder is this way, too – final and inevitable. But before he has time to think this through, a pair of strong arms lifts and turns him around so that now he is straddling Ryder’s lap. A wide grin sparks before Jim’s face, shark-like in its menace, when a bright flash of lightning sanctifies the sky, reflecting in Ryder’s eyes and turning them white and empty. Jim thinks they look just like the stars the man has talked about earlier, slipped off the horizon, crumbled down and reduced to razor shards, forever lodged in John Ryder’s eye sockets, burning everything human within his brain with their livid brilliance.  
  
\- You said it yourself. There is no turning back now.  
  
The metallic flavor in the air intensifies, covering Jim’s tongue with foul carrion sweetness. Ryder’s breath, his scent, the welcoming warmth of his body - all of it comes over Jim’s senses in tidal waves, overflowing the space around him, a mighty flood that may shield his heart from whatever wrathful god watches from above, aiming for it with an arrow of lightning. He gasps, rocking to the triumphant roar of thunder, and then Ryder’s hands are everywhere, creeping, lingering and forcing him apart, poking into his mouth and prowling under his skin; a pair of pale electric stars is enclosing him in the dark, bleeding with stellar agony and impossible heat as Ryder absorbs him whole, and Jim lets him do it.


End file.
